"Now let's see what happens when you're driving with the "other guy's brake pads"..."

"What the &*@# do you mean you can't come? What am I supposed to do? I am not home!"
-Me, on the side of the road


While skimming through my early entries from Vietnam I came across my reference to Bayley and Annie’s new motorbikes, which reminded me that I had not shared the story of my current motorbike…

It all started with me trying to show Annie how to get home.
We cruised up Dien Bien Phu street, half-way riding near each other like the Vietnamese drivers I absolutely abHOR. On this particular stretch of road I usually stay to the right, because 1) I eventually have to veer right and hate playing chicken with the cars, and 2) there’s a lot of potholes, bumps and holes in this road and I can generally avoid them on the right. However, this time I was in the center in order to show and tell Annie where to turn for her to get home. Admittedly, I was also grandstanding a bit too, as I had been the proud motorbike owner for a month longer than Annie, who was just learning.

Some background information on my driving style right now would probably help the reader. I drive fast. I drive safe, but I drive fast. The best excuse someone ever gave me for this quality is that my dad used to race F-1 in Europe in the 70s and it must just be genetic. I thank him for that, as it will be used as my excuse for speeding for the rest of all time. I also know the limitations of the machine I am driving and typically force it to perform to its limits. This is why in high school, after promising that I could get my truck lifted (all the rage in high school), my dad renegged on our deal when he saw how I took corners. “Slow down!” he’d yell while grasping onto the handle above his head. I’d explain the truck could take it, after all it was a mere 10 inches off the ground and quite stable. But still, he was unconvinced and merely happy that I survived my high school driving years without incident or ticket. But I’m an extremely safe and good driver, really I am.

So cruising down DBP, I did not question my bike’s ability to handle the rough spots in the road – after all, it ran well enough…a little beat up and not very powerful, but a good little bike. So up, down and over, I took the bumps in the road at high speed and waved goodbye to Annie at her turn off.
“Bump, bump, bump” was the slight noise I heard moments after I noticed the steering column start to vibrate and lose control. I feared it was something serious, like steering alignment or my bike literally falling apart, but I made it through the main intersection before pulling over. When I slowed down I could tell it was my front tire that was having problems. A little panicky, after all there is no AAA in Vietnam and you mostly have to fend for yourself, especially at 9pm, I called my motorbike man who has come immediately every time Jackie has called him.

“Hello? No, can’t come. Hospital. Ask someone. Can’t come. Tomorrow. No, can’t. Can’t.”
That just about sums up his end of the conversation, mine included many more hysterics.

The next call was to Jackie, who didn’t answer. Although it wasn’t her fault, I could’ve killed her and every person in Vietnam. A xe om driver on the corner was now starting to bother me since I had pulled out my map to tell motorbike man where I was and there were no shops open where I was. I was SO MAD at EVERYONE and decided: @*($& this, I’m going home.

So I drove half a mile home on a flat tire, no rim to road connection, but I had to go 10 mph and made a ‘bump bump’ sound and had visible shaking of the bike much to the amusement of Doi Can Street. I was very thankful to at least make it home.

The next morning I called motorbike man again to see if I could convince him to send someone to my house so I didn’t have to get ripped off by the people on my street. He sounded cheerful and said he could come in 30 minutes. I didn’t watch what he did but he fixed the bike and told me to come in 2 days to his shop for a new bike. I told him that no, I liked my bike but we couldn’t communicate very well. I'm not sure if he was insisting I take a new bike because the current one was bad (it didn't seem like it) or because I was too rough of a rider (or too heavy!) to have the smaller, crappier bike.

When I dropped off my rent money for him 2 days later he offered me the bike that was currently in pieces on his doorstep, the same model and color as my previous one. Apparently, as his wife explained to me, mine needed to be overhauled. I took one look at the sketchy and old bike parts on the ground and asked if I could also have the better bike for 5 more dollars a month.

Two days later a shiny new silver Honda X Series bike was delivered to my house. It has trouble starting and I like my old bike better. But now I avoid the rough spots in the road. One flat tire is enough for me.